


Dressed To Kill

by WastingYourGum



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2542244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg arrives at 221B Baker Street for a Hallowe'en party. He's a famous hunter - or is he the prey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed To Kill

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo's bonus Hallowe'en Round, using the prompt VAMPIRE.
> 
> And that's a BINGO! :)

Greg was almost safely to the door of 221B Baker Street when a passing zombie drunkenly lurched towards him and grabbed at his arm. He caught her and helped her stand more upright.

"Oops! Sorry!" she giggled. "Thanks."

"No problem."

She looked him up and down and giggled again.

"You look like Indiana Jones's dad!"

"Well, technically that could be true on a couple of levels," Greg thought. Either she was referring to literary influence or sadly more likely, she saw some resemblance to Sean Connery.

"Thanks," he said.

"I'm a zombie!"

"Yeah, I got that."

A Frankenstein's monster appeared at the corner, waving to her. "Lisa! You alright?"

She shooed him away with a hand flapped in his general direction. "Yeah, fine. Just tripped is all. Hang on."

She smiled at Greg again, gave him a cheery little wave then wandered off down the street in a mostly straight line.

"Bloody Hallowe'en," thought Greg as he rang the doorbell. "Glad I'm not on duty tonight."

The door was opened by another Frankenstein's monster, this time with the green smiling face of John Watson.

"Hello, Greg."

"Evening, John. Nice bolts."

"Yeah, Sherlock stuck 'em on - I'm just hoping they come off again! Come on in!"

Greg held up the six pack of beer he'd brought.

"Oh, cheers!" John said. "Why don't you take those upstairs and stick 'em in the fridge? Sherlock cleaned it out specially for tonight." John looked Greg's costume over as he stepped inside. "Big game hunter, eh? Nice! I think I saw a couple of large cats upstairs you could take aim at." He gave Greg a conspiratorial wink and Greg sighed inwardly. John and Mary had been trying to set him up for months now. Speaking of Mary…

"Where's your Bride by the way?"

"Oh, she's upstairs with Lizzie. There was no chance we were going to get a babysitter tonight so we just brought her along. She's our Igor - Mary gave her a little hunchback and everything."

"So who's…"

"John, do we have any ginger beer?" They were interrupted by a demand from the landing which answered Greg's question before he'd asked it.

Victor Frankenstein  - AKA Sherlock Holmes - was staring imperiously down at his creation.

"Cupboard under the toaster - but it won't be chilled," John replied.

Sherlock turned around in a whirl of frock coat and blood stained apron - God, Greg hoped that was fake blood - and disappeared back upstairs.

"He's creating cocktails using his chemistry equipment," John explained. "Don't worry - it's all been very thoroughly sterilised. Making quite a good job of it too. I think he may have found an alternate career as a mixologist."

"I think I'll just stick to the beer, thanks!" Greg replied.

"Probably wise," John agreed. "Go on up, I just need to grab some more nibbles from Mrs Hudson's fridge - it's acting as our spare."

Greg climbed the stairs and edged his way into the crowded living room, nodding a greeting to the few faces he recognised and some he didn't who greeted him anyway. A leggy blonde in a leopard-print catsuit complete with matching ears gave him a very broad smile. Greg smiled politely back then turned to flee into the kitchen.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Mycroft Holmes was standing by the doorway into the kitchen.

His hair was slicked back more severely than usual and looked a few shades darker - in stark contrast to his face which was a few shades paler - and instead of his customary three piece suit he was wearing white tie and tails and a floor-length black cloak with red silk lining.

He was every inch the classic, full on, Bela Lugosi's Dracula.

And Greg had _always_ had a thing for vampires.

He'd also, for a good long while, had a bit of a thing for Mycroft Holmes. This was not a combination that boded well...

Holmes looked round, spotted Greg gawking at him and gave him a slow smile revealing two sharp fangs. He inclined his head and drawled, "Good evening, Lestrade."

Greg's mouth went dry. He swallowed nervously and licked his lips. "M-Mr Holmes, you look…" _dangerous, sexy, fucking amazing_ all mercifully kept themselves behind Greg's lips and instead he opted for, "...very impressive."

"Thank you. As do you. Freshly returned from King Solomon's Mines?"

"Yes!" Greg couldn't stop himself from giving a relieved smile. "You're the first person to guess correctly."

"I rarely guess, Detective Inspector. You're dressed as a turn of the century big game hunter and have even grown the requisite beard for the occasion. Who else could you be but Allan Quatermain?"

"I was beginning to think I was the only person still alive who'd read it!"

"Hardly - though I believe more people these days will be familiar with him from the graphic novels and films."

Holmes was cradling a large wine glass full of thick red liquid. He held it up as he saw Greg looking curiously at it.

"Not B positive I assure you." Greg wondered for a moment if Mycroft actually _knew_ his blood group or that was just a co-incidence - he suspected not. "Something Sherlock whipped up for me - a variation on kir. He knows what a sweet tooth I have."

"Looks more like a sharp tooth than a sweet one."

"Indeed." Holmes ran his tongue slowly down one pointed canine. It sent a chill down Greg's spine and a flush of heat to his groin. "I may leave these in and see what reception they get at work on Monday morning."

"Are-- sorry." Greg cleared his throat - his voice had gone a bit husky for some reason. "Are they just stuck on?"

"No, it's a cunningly fitted brace - much more secure. I don't need to worry about leaving them behind in an hors d'oeuvre - or a willing victim."

Holmes smiled as he looked right at Greg's neck then up into his face - which was suddenly feeling very warm. He raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Are you feeling well, Lestrade? You look a little flushed."

"I'm... no, it's... I could do with a drink," Greg stammered. "It's quite warm in here."

Holmes leaned closer. "You know, in earlier times a florid complexion was considered a sign of too much sanguinity - the recommended course of action for which, was a prompt bloodletting."

Greg opened his mouth to ask if that was an offer but was interrupted by Mary - he wasn't sure if he was furious with her or relieved she'd saved him from embarrassing himself even further.

"Hello, Greg! Nice costume! Want me to put those in the fridge for you?"

He handed over the six-pack. "Hi Mary - yes, thanks. Got any cold ones?"

"Has Mycroft drained you dry already?" She winked. "I'll see what I can find."

"No, he's… we were just…" Greg blustered.

"I assure you I was asking nothing of the good Inspector," Mycroft cut in smoothly. "Besides, somehow ' _I vant to drink your beer_...' doesn't quite have the same ring to it."

"No," Greg agreed. "I don't think I'd satisfy your sweet tooth either… I mean, the _beer_ , the beer wouldn't."

Mary grinned hugely. "I'll just leave you two alone, shall I?"

"No, I'll… I'll come with you. Not sure what I want to drink. It was nice seeing you again, Mr Holmes." Greg shot past Holmes at speed and made a beeline for the fridge, tempted to just stick his whole head inside.

Mary appeared at his elbow as he took a remarkably long time perusing its contents.

"You like him," she said.

"Mmm?" Greg cast his eyes over a fruit flavoured cider for the fourth time.

"Don't 'mmm' me - you like him. Mycroft."

Greg grabbed the first thing that came to hand which turned out to be a nasty American lager.

"Yeah, he's alright. Bit scary when you first meet him but--"

"No, no, no - you _like_ him. You _like_ like him."

"I think you've mistaken me for someone in the costume of a 14 year old girl, Mary."

She stood and grinned and waited and grinned some more.

"Oh for God's… _Fine_ ," Greg conceded. "Yes. I ' _like_ like' Mycroft - have done as long as I've known him - and I may as well ' _like_ like' Brad Pitt for all the chance I have of convincing him to give me the time of day…"

"It's a little after ten fifteen." Mycroft's voice came from what sounded like two inches above and behind Greg's head.

Greg could feel every hair on the back of his neck standing to attention. Perhaps if he never turned round this would all magically go away…

Mary's smile was threatening to go nuclear by this point. She lifted the lager away from Greg's unresisting grip, slid a bottle of something dark, hoppy and chocolatey into its place and, looking over his shoulder, said, "Play nice, you're even more scary like that," before smugly sashaying - Greg had no other word for it - back into the lounge.

A long, elegant hand came to rest on his shoulder. The index finger belonging to it stroked down the side of his neck.

"I wonder if you might care for some fresh air, Lestrade? You're still looking a little… hot."

Greg felt the "h" on his skin and shivered. "I... I think we could get down through Mrs Hudson's to the back yard..."

"Actually I was wondering if you were possibly feeling a little more… adventurous?"

_Fuck it._ Greg took a healthy swig of his stout, wiped his lip on the back of his hand, turned round and said, "Dressed like this? What do you think?"

Mycroft smiled. "I expected no less. In that case would you accept my invitation to another, more… intimate gathering? At my townhouse? I can have my driver pick us up from here in five minutes."

"...I can finish this drink in three."

"I do admire a man of action."

"And I'm quite partial to tall, dark and mysterious - good job we went with these costumes, eh?"

"I've heard it said that any disguise is always, to some extent, a self-portrait."

"I don't recall shooting any lions recently."

"But hunting is nevertheless a large part of your job."

"Feeling more like the hunted than the hunter right now. Looming from the shadows is definitely your specialty."

"As is disappearing back into them - shall we?" Mycroft gestured to the door beside them leading back into the much less brightly lit stairwell.

Greg glanced around the room - nobody was watching them. "Why not?" He drained the rest of his drink, set the bottle down on the nearest available surface and stepped ahead of Mycroft who, of course, whirled his cape around him as he quit the room, concealing Greg's exit...

 

Mary glanced out of the window as the car pulled up and Mycroft swept his guest inside. The sound of their laughter carried up from the street. "Ah, children of the night. What music they make," she chuckled to herself.

Lizzie gurgled happily in her arms.

"Not you, Lizzie - you make a right racket!" Mary kissed her on the cheek and went to find John, partly to find out where he'd got to with those snacks but mostly so she could gloat about being totally right when she'd insisted on inviting Mycroft. She couldn't wait to give the good news to Sherlock either...


End file.
